


This Little Violence

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 20:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: Midnight at the diner. The cook's got his troubles. So does the blond guy who's just come in.





	This Little Violence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pfrye](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pfrye).



> MFUWSS 2019 Easter Egg Challenge
> 
> Prompts: Midnight, Loneliness, Sunrise

Midnight. Right on time. The second hand goes around, the minute hand goes around, the hour hand goes around. Click by click. You can’t change it. You never get more time. Like death, every twenty-four hours. Midnight. The herald of the lonely hours.  _Herald of the lonely hours, she’d say. You big goof, who says herald? Only you._

This time of night, it’s pretty much always dead. I get a little rush right after eleven from second shift people, mostly nurses and aides from the hospital across the street, coming off work. But by midnight it was just me and Margaret Farrar’s latest act of malice. I tapped my pencil on the counter. Click, click, along with the clock.

A flash of silvered glass across the street caught my eye; streetlight, reflected in the emergency room’s double doors as they swung open. I put down my crossword puzzle and watched. A man, coming outside. Blond, on the low end of medium in height, slim in build. Rumpled black topcoat, black pants. He walked down the sidewalk to the curb, paused a moment, looked both ways, checking for cars. He crossed the street, opened the door to the diner, came inside.

His face bore the bruises of a slugging, his lips split, a conjoined gash that told of catching one straight on the mouth. Looked like a bar fight. I’d have bet on the other guy.  

“Any where’s fine,” I said.

“Thank you.” He walked down the aisle, took the middle window booth, sat down.

“Coffee?” I asked him from my spot at the end of the counter.

He looked up at me and nodded.  “Yes, thank you.”

I put my pencil down, went behind the counter, picked up the coffee pot, grabbed a mug, took it over to him and poured.  He wrapped both hands around the mug. A lurch to the gut; his hands were beat to hell, purple-black fingers and nails smashed and split. I tried not to stare. “Anything to eat?”  

“In a bit. Just coffee for now,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, and went back behind the counter, put the coffee back on the burner. I went back to my crossword puzzle. Kept my eye on him.

He’d pulled the menu from behind the napkin holder and was examining it. The guy looked tired. Dead tired. He sipped his coffee mechanically, eyes glued to the menu, which was not a work of literature, although the way he studied it, you’d think it was.  

 

Breakfast Twenty-four Hours Farm Fresh Eggs—

_grandmother look what happened it’s ruined_

_you must crack the shell gently Illyusha_

_pull it apart slowly_

_now it breaks_

_the egg is at its most delicate state now_

_cup your fingers let the egg spill into them_

_see how the white and the yolk slip away from each other_

_it may seem as though you are doing nothing but you are the force behind this little violence_

_this is how to separate them_

_. . . ._

 

The guy lowered the menu and rubbed his forehead absently, eyes closed. The sleeve of his coat slipped down, revealing a purpled forearm, the wrist encircled by a red, raw band. My stomach jumped again. I stole another, longer look at him. His clothing was too large. No wonder the sleeve had fallen. I realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath the coat. He stared out the black glass into the empty night. Looking for something. Something across the street. 

 

_scrambled brains scrambled_

_it’s the drugs try to sleep_

_what is it two days_

_four_

_didn’t crack thought I was starting to_

_let me look what the hell they didn’t bother to take the wires off_

_how inattentive of them_

_hold still the contacts are on your_

_leave it they’ll just put them on again_

_held out as long as I – sorry_

_don’t be sorry stay awake tell me what you_

_old stuff nothing they wouldn’t have already_

_that’s it are you sure_

_dreamed you were dead_

_lonely so lonely_

_can’t reach you_

_in here hey they’re in here_

_Illya Illya come on let’s get you turned over_

_here we go easy now easy_

_if he makes it through the night_

_he’s lucky he’s always been lucky_

_not always lucky_

_lucky enough_

_. . . ._

 

He must have felt me spying on him; he glanced over at me. His eyes held an unutterable look of – I looked away. _Unutterable. There you go again. Her voice patient, smiling. You’re a professor, not a cook. Get back to Madison when – after.  Promise me._

I brought the coffee pot to him and refilled his mug. “Ready to order?” I asked.

“I’ll have two eggs. Over easy,” he said. “With toast.” 

“Coming right up,” I said, and went back to the grill.  I tossed a couple of pats of butter on the grill and cracked the eggs. They dropped into the sizzling butter, yellow and white. I stuck the bread in the toaster and glanced back at him. He was still watching the night outside.

 

 _dragged you out of the cell beat me some more dumped you to the floor out of your head talking nonsense_ _I’m freezing you said . I rubbed your shivering body until the tremors stopped pulled you close to me wrapped you in my arms. You breathed my name drew apart enough so I could lay my hands on you between us.  I moved them gently slowly against you until your breathing came faster you returned my movements all of them and when you stilled you whispered my name again and slept_

_dreamed you were dead, you said later. I was in Central Park sitting on a bench looking at the dates on your tombstone. I was lonely. So lonely. Go back to sleep, I said_

_. . . ._

I plated his breakfast and took it to him. He ate.  He looked out the window. He dozed off. So I let him sleep.

 

_dragged apart chained_

_dark pitch black_

_Napoleon_

_answer me_

_Napoleon_

_can’t reach you_

 

_this little violence_

_. . . ._

 

I look forward to dawn, after the long, empty hours after midnight. When, after another night of time draining away, the lonely night turns, over easy, into the golden eye of sunrise.  _Really? You’d say. Who talks like that?_

I looked at the clock. Five-thirty. The sun would be up in a little while. Back in January, it was still dark when I got off work. But sunrise is a thing of change. Like life. Things change. The sky was turning lavender and pink when he woke. 

“Morning,” I said to him.

He gave me a “Good Morning” in return and went to the can.  I could have sworn I heard him talking to himself in there.  He came out and walked up to the register. The sleep had done him good - he had a glint in his eyes, and, for the first time, he offered me a smile.

“Coffee, to go,” he said. “Make it two.”

 

The End 


End file.
